Murder Underground

by Mavis Doriel Hay

  Basil had chucked the “comic hat”—a black felt, of “Chelsea” character, with wide brim—across the room, and thrown his overcoat over a chair. He stood on the hearthrug looking down at Mamie and wondering how best to deal with her. Mamie, who had always been kind and consoling, had now, like Mrs. Waddilove, “turned nasty”. Of course they both suspected him of being concerned in the murder of his aunt, and, instead of trying to shelter him, they could only think of their own petty difficulties.

  “Look here, Mamie—I told you I was in a hole when I saw you on Friday night, and you turned up trumps then and helped me. I hadn’t forgotten you—after all, that’s only the day before yesterday. I haven’t had time to get the money yet. Besides, as I told you, I didn’t want to bring you into the mess. The police are keeping an eye on me; you see, they haven’t caught the murderer yet, whoever he is, and they have to keep their eyes open and watch everyone who might be mixed up in the affair, in the hope of getting a clue. That’s why I didn’t want to go and see you or you to come here. There’s a man on the watch outside this house, and he’ll probably follow you when you go away and ask you awkward questions.”

  Mamie tossed her head. “And you don’t want me to tell them all I know about you, Mr. Pongleton-Brown! Of course not!”

  Basil seized a humpty, drew it up beside Mamie’s chair, and sat there. Her small, plump hand, with stubby fingers and red lacquered nails, lay on the arm of the chair, and he put his own hand over it.

  “You’ve been so kind to me, Mamie, and I’ve trusted you—surely you won’t let me down now?”

  “Trusted me!” snorted Mamie. “Couldn’t even tell me your right name!”

  “What did my name matter, anyway? I went to you when I was in a hole on Friday night, and you helped me, as I knew you would.”

  Mamie turned her long-lashed, greenish eyes upon him coldly.

  “But you knew when you came to me on Friday that the old lady had been murdered, and yet the news wasn’t in the papers then!”

  “What makes you think I knew?”

  “Weren’t you in a nice state of mind? I knew something’d upset you, but I didn’t know what till later. Then I began to put two an’ two together, after I read the news an’ saw your picture. The paper said you lived in Tavistock Square. Well, I’ve got frien’s here, an’ it didn’t take me long to find out from them where you lived. With that hat, y’see, anyone’d notice you. Nice hat for a murderer, I mus’ say!”

  “Mamie, you don’t really think I could do that horrible thing? Besides, I didn’t wear—” He stopped himself abruptly. “Mamie, I swear to you that I had nothing to do with it. If I had, why should I want to get the pearls back? If Aunt Phemia had been alive I should have been able to pay you back before now. Her death hasn’t done me any good.”

  “Don’t you get her money?” enquired Mamie.

  “What makes you think she had any money? And if she had I don’t know whether I get it or whether it goes to my cousin. Anyway, I haven’t got any of it yet. Surely you can wait a bit longer, Mamie? My aunt isn’t buried yet—that’s to-morrow, and they’ll read the will after the funeral. But even if she left her money to me, they won’t hand me a bag of gold right away.”

  “I’m not quite so soft as you think,” Mamie informed him. “I know all that, but I want some security. I’d like an IOU in your own name, Mr. Basil Pongleton, and that’s what I came here for.”

  “Of course I’ll give you that—but you won’t hand it over to the police? It wouldn’t help you, and it might make things difficult for me. Be a sport, Mamie!”

  “Looks as if bein’ a sport was goin’ to cost me a lot!” Mamie complained, but her voice sounded kinder.

  Basil went to his desk and took out some paper. He unscrewed his fountain-pen slowly, meditating. It was risky, but it seemed only fair. Could he trust her? In any case, if she were going to be vindictive and should choose to show his original IOU—in the name of Geoffrey Brown but in his own handwriting—to the police, that might look even more fishy than one in his own name.

  Mamie sat polishing her fingernails on the padded arm of the chair. She was, as Mrs. Waddilove had said, not so young as she would like people to think. Basil had never thought of her as young, but she did not suspect that. Her make-up was carefully put on, but exaggerated. There was a metallic glint in the red curls on to one side of which a tiny knitted blue cap was apparently glued. Her skimpy blue coat, with immense “coney” collar, was thrown open and showed a dress of paler blue artificial silk. The three blues just failed to match.

  Basil handed her the IOU which he had written out. She glanced at it, folded it, and opened her scarlet handbag, from which she took a soiled paper. Flipping it open under his eyes she scrunched it up and hurled it into the fire.

  “Just to show you I’m not cattish—Geoff!” She smiled at him from her tired eyes. “The p’lice would like to get hold of that! Might look fishy!”

  “I knew you were a good sort!” Basil exclaimed with relief. He patted her hand, and she turned up her face towards him. He bent down and gave her, without enthusiasm, the kiss she expected.

  “But you’re a bit of a mug,” she added. “You should have asked me for the other one before you gave me this!” She tucked the clean paper into her bag and snapped it shut.

  “That’ll show you I’m not a hardened criminal but merely a bit of an ass who has got himself into a mess through being short of cash!”

  “I dessay. But how am I ter know?”

  “You’ve simply got to go on trusting me, and you shall have the money back with interest—I swear you shall.” Basil sat down again beside her. “I didn’t fool you over ‘Geoffrey’. That really is my name—my second name.”

  “You didn’t fool me at all. I never thought you were Mr. Brown—that’s too easy. Now, if it’d bin de Vere, say, I might’ve believed you. I always had a fancy for a boy friend called de Vere.”

  “Mamie, you’re a dear! We’ll go to the pictures again when I’m clear of this mess.”

  “P’raps you’ll be gettin’ married when you come into the money?” suggested Mamie, a little sadly.

  “Well—yes, I hope so; I don’t know if she—if anyone will want to marry me after this. Doesn’t make me look much of a hero, does it?”

  “Women are all fools,” Mamie assured him. “Soft!—that’s what we are. Else why’d I do all this for you?”

  “Because you’re a good sort,” Basil told her. “I knew you were, from the moment when I first met you at the pictures, and you’ve been a brick all through.”

  “That was Hearts Aflame, wasn’t it? Soppy sort of picture. A good comic is what I reelly like. Tell you what, you can take me to the new Jack Hulbert; I’d like to see that while it’s still at one of those big places where you can’t get in under three an’ six—makes the other girls a bit jealous to tell them I’ve been there. It’ll just do for our good-bye razzle—and a bit of supper, with some fizzy wine?”

  “Rather! But not good-bye?”

  “If you’re goin’ to be married it’d better be good-bye,” said Mamie sagely. “Oh, I know there’s no harm in it, but who’ll believe that? Not your girl! And anyway, you’ll want to be takin’ her out.”

  “You don’t understand what she’s like, Mamie. She’ll believe me, and she’d like you for having been so kind to me.”

  “Don’t you believe it, and don’t you go messin’ things up agin by telling ’er anything about me. You men are all alike—think everyone believes you. She’ll believe you all right so long as you don’t give her anything too difficult, but don’t take no risks!”

  “I’ll have to take some risks when I start explaining things to her. But it’ll be all right. You’ve cheered me up a lot, Mamie. I’ve had an awful time these last few days—simply hell!”

  “I’d better be off.” Mamie rose from the chair and beg
an to pull her coat around her and fasten it. The blue cloth hugged her plump figure tightly, and Mamie smoothed it self-consciously.

  “I’ll just take a look in your glass to do me face,” she said, whisking behind the curtain. From the other side her voice continued. “Oh yes, I had a look round while I was waiting. Nice little place you’ve got here but your old lady downstairs—she’s a tartar! I’ll get some black looks when I go out; and she’ll be prying round and looking at the bed, if she can find an excuse to come up here, I’ll be bound!”

  “She’s all right,” Basil said. “But the police have been worrying her, and she’s scared of harbouring a criminal.”

  “The old cat!” Mamie declared.

  “That reminds me, the fellow outside may follow you when you go away and ask you who you are and what you know about me and the rest of it. What are you going to tell him?”

  “I don’t want those busies around my place. Tell you what, have you got a taxi fare on you?”

  “Depends how far you want to go,” said Basil cautiously. “But you can’t throw them off the scent by taking a taxi. They’ll get his number, and ask him where he took you.”

  “You don’t think I’d be such a soft as to drive up to me door? I’ll just take a bob’s worth down the Tot’nam Court Road and hop on a bus, and if they catch me I can tell the tale—came to see you on a matter o’ business; your mother’s wantin’ a companion, isn’t she?”

  Mamie came out from behind the curtain, giggling with joy, and took a few mincing steps with prim, downcast looks. “Quite the lady, aren’t I? Now you go and ring up a taxi, that’s a good boy, Geoff!”

  Basil hurried downstairs to obey, and Mamie followed more slowly. At the bottom of the staircase she waited, swinging one leg and pointing the toe thoughtfully.

  “You’d better not come again, Mamie,” he exhorted her after he had rung up the taxi rank and ordered a cab. “Though I’m glad, after all, that you did come this evening. You know, I wanted to see you and tell you it’d be all right, but I didn’t know how to do it.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll sit tight and wait till you come along. I say—they haven’t reelly got anything against you, have they? I mean, it’s the inquest to-morrow, and these busies—if they can’t get the right man they’ll get the wrong one, just to show they’re doin’ something.”

  “It’ll be all right. But I wish they could find the man. The puzzling thing is to find who’d benefit by my aunt’s death. That’s why they’re on to me, you see, because I’m supposed to come into her money.”

  “M-m.” Mamie polished her fingernails against the palm of her hand. “It’s funny, the things that’ll make people do murder. You’d never believe—Is that the taxi?”

  Basil saw her off and hurried upstairs, affecting not to see Mrs. Waddilove, who hovered behind a half-open door.

  Chapter XIV

  Betty Decides to Cook the Evidence

  The Sunday after the murder was a harassing day for Betty. It began with the troublesome plans for sending news to Basil of her deed overnight. Then followed a walk over the Heath with Cissie, who enjoyed a thorough review of all the details of the crime known to her and many others imagined by her, and tried to fix the guilt conclusively on a variety of persons, from Mrs. Bliss to Nellie, not excepting Basil. On their return they heard how Beryl and Gerry had called for Tuppy and carried him away with his basket and cushions. That threw Betty into a state of agitation, but after some flurried thinking she came to the conclusion that perhaps it was a good chance. Basil would get her note directly he arrived at Beverley House, and would probably manage to “find” the pearls.

  Betty was of a placid temperament, and the minor difficulties which life had so far put in her way she had been able to cope with by practical measures. She was, therefore, disposed to think that every ill could be cured by “doing something”. She thought happily that she had successfully done her part towards clearing up Basil’s latest schemozzle, and now Basil would doubtless do his and all would be well.

  After lunch she settled in a corner of the smoking-room to write her weekly letter home. It was impossible not to mention the murder, and as soon as that subject was let loose, the idea of Basil came to the fore again. Since her walk with him on Saturday evening her mind had been so occupied with practical plans that she had not indulged in much consecutive thought on the whole situation. Now she began to go over what he had told her and try to sort it all out.

  Basil went to Golder’s Green on Friday morning to see the man who was to paint Beryl’s picture. He went home—when was it?—in the afternoon—or the evening, did he say?—and he had some business to see to and then he had supper in Soho because it was too late to go to his rooms for dinner. What did he say about the business? Something he didn’t want to tell anyone about at present, which sounded as if it were something to do with his aunt, for Basil was not much occupied with business as a rule, except for interviews with editors, and there was no reason why they should be wrapped in mystery. But how could it be to do with Pongle? Ah, the pearls! It must have been something to do with those pearls. But he didn’t know then that his aunt was murdered; he had said that he read it in the paper while he was having supper. He had told Beryl that he had supper with a friend; he had told the police that he also went to see The Constant Nymph at the New Vic. But Betty realized that she herself had not been told whether the “friend”, the supper-companion, existed or not. The whole affair was very bothering, and why should Basil be driven to all these subterfuges?

  He was under suspicion of some kind, or thought he was. There must be some cause. Could it be that he knew who murdered his aunt? That he was trying to shelter them in some way? Betty was really fond of Basil; sufficiently fond of him to be able to look squarely at his weaknesses and accept them as part of him. Also she trusted him, though it may seem strange that anyone who had much to do with Basil should trust him.

  She believed that in spite of all his prevarications and evasions and reluctance to tell anyone, even her, the whole truth about anything, he would not deceive her about any truly important matter. She felt sure, too, that he was incapable of crime or brutality, but generosity, perhaps misplaced—that was exactly in Basil’s line. The more she thought about it the plainer it seemed to her that the whole puzzle could be explained by the theory that Basil had in some way found out—probably before the news was in the papers—about his aunt’s murder and who the murderer was, and that he was determined to shield that person at all costs.

  Betty was pleased at having found a key to the mystery, but it did not abolish her worry. She was vague about criminal law, but surely the shielding of such a criminal must be punishable in some way, she thought. And whom could he be so anxious to protect? He must feel that there was some strong extenuation, some cause which had driven the murderer to desperation beyond control. Betty could only think of Bob Thurlow. She believed that Pongle had probably threatened him with exposure and frightened him badly; perhaps Nellie had been threatened also with dismissal and disgrace. Betty had never been able to see Bob as a murderer—but who else could it be? Bob, rather a noodle, scared and helpless, without influential friends to help him, would be just the person whose plight would appeal to Basil’s mistaken chivalry. For although Betty felt a glow of sympathy for what she had decided was Basil’s readiness to bring suspicion on himself and get himself into a thorough mess in the hope of saving Bob, yet at the same time her commonsense told her that it was a foolhardy thing to do.

  It was difficult to see just where the pearls came in, but Bob had stolen—or helped to steal—a brooch, and perhaps he had stolen the pearls too, and Basil was trying to help him to conceal that theft by restoring them.

  Was it possible, in a purely material way, for Bob to have committed the crime? was Betty’s next question to herself. The general idea was that the police did not believe Bob to be guilty. They seemed to be look
ing for someone else, but perhaps that was only because there was some hiatus in their evidence against him—a hiatus which Basil’s knowledge could fill. Betty marshalled the facts relative to Bob: his motive; his presence in the underground passage near the foot of the staircase just before the crime; his possible knowledge, through Nellie, of Pongle’s plans that morning; the dog-leash—ah! it was still uncertain, so far as Betty knew, when the dog-leash had been taken.

  Nellie was sure the leash had been in the hall on Thursday night but not on Friday morning. Nellie, of course, might be protecting Bob, who was known to have waited in the lounge hall at the Frampton on Thursday evening, soon after dinner, to see Pongle.

  Betty suddenly scrunched up the sheet of paper on which she had been drawing patterns to help out her thoughts, and hurled it with good aim into the fire. Hurriedly she scribbled a few sentences to conclude her letter to her mother, which she then sealed and addressed. She had left her stamps upstairs, she remembered.

  As Betty came out of her bedroom a few minutes later with the stamped letter in her hand, Nellie passed along the corridor ahead of her, in hat and coat. It was her Sunday evening out.

  “Please, Nellie,” Betty called after her, “would you post this letter for me?”

  Nellie turned and came back to Betty’s door to take the letter.

  “Seems dismal-like,” she confided to Betty, “havin’ no one to go out with. But I’m goin’ to see Bob’s fam’ly—maybe they can tell me ’ow ’e’s gettin’ on. Mr. Plasher’s bin very kind— I ’spect you’ve ’eard, miss—gettin’ ’im a lawyer an’ all.”

  “I’m very glad, Nellie, and I hope it’ll turn out all right. Have the police been asking you any more questions? You told them, I suppose, that you remembered seeing the leash in the hall on Thursday night and not on Friday morning?”